Tuesday, September 14, 2010

SITTING INDOORS TO WRITE POEMS (a cento)


My tiny boat, with my young playmates round,
Might guide the élan of hardier passersby.
Seeing the summit pierce the abstract heavens,
I see the cherry, flaked and fresh,
When slowly (and nobody comes with a light)
The sliding shapes to find which place is which
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
But here I stand, an average-looking man
Of the decaying mind. There
The chorus sing in a victory ode—What is a nobody?
He swam in a puddle.

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